He Who Was Once Trowa Barton
by Tsuki the Avenger
Summary: "I wanted to kill you. But instead, I told you the truth." VERY DARK fic about the relationship between a pilot named Trowa and the one who stole his name. (Yaoi, non-con, spoilers for Endless Waltz scenes)


**Author's Note:** So, I decided to re-post some of my older fics back to the internet since most of sites they were on no longer exist. This 2005 story is actually my absolute favorite of my GW fics. Trowa/Nanashi has always been the character I was most drawn to; in _Endless Waltz_ and the Episode Zero mangas, I just found his story and psychology so strange and compelling... so I wrote this. This is very much an 'M' rated fic (**TRIGGER WARNING** for rape [despite the first line's claim], gore, and just general messed-up-ness). This is definitely one of the darkest GW fics I've written.

I'll be posting more of my old GW fics throughout the week, so if you like this one, click on my profile for more. _~ Tsuki_

…

**He Who Was Once Trowa Barton**

…

"The name of a man is a numbing blow, from which he never recovers."

_**~Marshall McLuhan**_

…

It wasn't rape.

I could have stopped you at any time. Of course, you didn't know that.

It wouldn't have taken much— a twist of my ankle to fracture your kneecap, a jolt of my shoulders as I pull you down toward me, breaking your arm. If nothing else, I have a spring-loaded switchblade under the left corner of my mattress, which I could have easily retrieved and buried into the taut tendons of your shoulder.

But I didn't.

Don't flatter yourself— it wasn't because you were special. I didn't have any emotional attachment to my virginity. I would have let it go long before then, if only someone else had asked. Had propositioned. Had demanded.

But no one ever did. They knew that I could kill them in seconds, whether or not I was currently armed. They knew what my hands could do with a knife. With a gun. With nothing at all. They all knew— and let's just say that's not the sort of information that usually encourages passionate bedmates.

But you were so conveniently self-absorbed, so confident in your indestructibility. You were, after all, a god, created simply to be worshiped. To deal out salvation and devastation wherever you saw fit.

And you played the part well. Amazingly well. Even I'll admit that.

And you looked the part— a Greek deity straight out of Olympus, all golden muscles and fair, flaxen hair. Raking my hands down your back was like digging into the spine of Michelangelo's David— magnificent, the epitome of male, physical perfection. Your arms were sculpted at least twice the size of my own, your legs each approximately the width of my scrawny torso.

Although, if you ever cared to learn, I could have shown you that my tight, wiry muscles were just as formidable as your obnoxiously discernible ones.

Anyone who ever saw us together (which was no one— you made sure of that) would probably have laughed at the sight: glorious Apollo exchanging words with the soot and oil smudged face of Hephaistos. In comparison to you, I was a walking string bean, tall and thin and breakable. At least, you _thought_ I was breakable.

I could have killed you at any time.

Why did you seek me out? Even in the beginning, I knew that you would have preferred the supple arms of a young woman to me— even if you had to pay for sex (which, with your looks, would never happen) it surely would have been better.

But then, anything is better than Nothing.

But the very first time you saw me, my features smudged black from tinkering with the beautiful Mobile Suit (a Gundam— God damn, you never could have appreciated that for what it was— stunning… majestic… divine…) you leered at me, half-smirking as you winked.

Yes, it would have been easy for me to kill you.

I never hated you, but I certainly never cared about you. You were, at best, an annoyance. Nevertheless, you were an annoyance with a great cock, so who am I to judge?

The first time you approached me, we hardly spoke. A brief greeting, an analysis of the Mobile Suit that you could never understand, never appreciate.

Then I was shoved backwards, my head slamming against cold metal, scraping red paint (you were lucky— men have died for less), as your massive hands tugged at my pants, crushing at my thighs until they burned with large, red marks the shape of fists.

You weren't gentle, and for that I'm grateful. The last thing I needed was someone pretending to be tender, pretending that I mattered.

That was the best thing about you, Trowa. You _never_ pretended that I mattered.

Not even the first time you took me, shuddering and shaking on my mattress-bed in the corner of the storage room. Only spit to ease the way, no lube or vaseline. I remember you clenching my hips like a man possessed— violent, with no regard for my comfort— entering me fully with one sharp, brutal lunge. You fucked me fiercely and deep, as if you wanted to split me in two; more than once I imagined my abdomen rupturing and tearing, my skin ripping like wet tissue paper, my intestines tumbling out like pink, fleshy noodles, my blood soaking your body as you continued to pound into my dying carcass— soon just a scarlet lump of hot, dead meat.

This dream was rather comforting... and sometimes even I find that strange.

But that's how little you cared about me. I admired that.

You didn't care enough to wait until my bruises healed and my aching, torn ass adjusted. You came back and made sure I was on the floor again the next day, sobbing and writhing and howling under you. You didn't care that, just eighteen hours before, you had bloodily ripped me away from my unaffected virginity, slamming into me as deep as you could go, abusing and pounding as if it were a plaything especially built for you to demolish.

There was no way you could have known how much I needed that. How much I despised that no one else would touch me. That everyone I have ever known has resided in constant alarm of my slight, but lethal frame.

Sometimes I almost believed I could love you for that. Not that it would have stopped me from killing you, if need be…

It was odd when our relationship changed.

Oh, the sex was always the same— violent, intense, and brutal. But, during the day, when people where in full view, you began to talk to me.

And that wasn't the deal. That wasn't the way it worked.

I learned about your family, your stubborn and harsh father, your dead mother, your newborn niece. You obviously weren't as much of a god as you thought you were, if you needed someone like me to talk to.

And then you asked about my name.

I wanted to kill you. But instead, I told you the truth.

You couldn't pronounce my practical joke of a name; you could barely speak German and Basic Colony English. Your French was abysmal, and your Mandarin needed serious work. So why would I expect your Japanese to be any different? The pleasing sound of the flowing syllables became two sharp claps— the sweet song of "Nanashi" transformed into the flat curse of "NO NAME".

Sex became just another obligation after that, just another task to check off my daily list. You were just as forceful as ever, just as cruel. I still found myself covered with cuts and bruises, still broke and bled every so often. But I couldn't love you for that anymore— now there was an added sense of intimacy.

God… It disgusted me. I stayed around for the Gundam, not for you. I couldn't just leave it— that brilliant and lovely weapon.

And then today… today, I saw you arguing with the scientists. Usually they roll over for you, for the god that you are. But at present they stood their ground.

Your shouts escalated, making my blood pulse and burn. Conflict is etched into my body, into my very cells. I burn for it— I used to be a soldier, you know. Well, no, you don't know. You never bothered to ask. Again, I thank you for that— love you for that, despise you for that.

You turned and stormed away from them. I could tell you wanted to punch something, wanted to hurt something, wanted to make something bleed.

You saw me standing there, oil rag in hand, and you gave me a cruel grin, your brown eyes flashing the same gold as your hair. Yes, you knew I was always there for you.

Then… then, Trowa Barton was no more…

Have you ever practiced shooting at rotten produce, Trowa? I did as a child. It's quite entertaining. Not to mention informative. You know, what a Luger does to an overripe watermelon is almost exactly what, at the same range, a Luger does to a human skull? I know. I've seen it happen. To you, actually.

Fragments of bone landed on my boots, sloppy, pink smears of brain-matter still attached. Blood splattered like a supernova, droplets flying onto the walls, onto the Gundam's metallic leg, onto my cheeks and eyelashes.

It was quite the sight, really.

Although, I must admit, I had a small pang of regret. The scientists killed you out of desperation—the heat of the moment. I would have done it out of love. Or revulsion.

The one scientist began to hyperventilate then, his face flushed red with adrenaline and newly realized terror. I doubt that he'd even fired that gun at a human before, let alone killed anyone. His eyes watered, his bottom hip trembling as his comrade shouted frantically. It was then that I stepped forward—

"Hey—"

"Who's there?"

My feet moved forward without my order, my mouth without thought. I never liked you. I love you. I wish I could have… I wish…

I wish I could be you. Even dead, cranium pieces plastered across the floor, you existed more than I ever will. You were sadistic and cruel and mind-numbingly dull. You were beautiful and confident and brainless.

And I didn't even kill you. So, I guess I'll do the next best thing.

"You know, I was feeling insecure without a name. So, if you don't mind, I think I'll take his…"

…

**END**


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